The teller had not thought of that. He was surprised both at the idea and the junior.
"You're right, Henty," he said, with interest, "I'm taking an awful chance. I believe in my heart Penton is a crook."
"Surest thing in the world!"
Evan thought a while.
"I'm going to write head office," he said finally, "and ask them for a move—but I can't peach on Penton's doings."
An answer to the manager's letter came from head office, but the teller did not receive a reply to his own. The one addressed to Penton said that manager and teller would have to put up $50 each, on account of the loss, to be paid in monthly instalments. It was a shrewd compromise, and characteristic of head office.
Penton swore volubly and pretended to be sorely aggravated.
"Well," he said, "you got off easy, anyway."
Filter was professionally indignant when he heard of the affair, but a man came in who couldn't write his name, and asked to open a savings account. He so interested Gordon that Gordon forgot all else and settled in between the covers of his ledger like a pressed moth. He came out of his shell (to change the simile) toward the close of the day's work and went into a minute examination of certain deposit slips that had gone through the day of the shortage, but his interest was purely clerical, and his sympathy amounted to: "Did you ever see such rotten writers as these Banfield storekeepers?"
Henty looked up from a sponge, which, he said, he was training to lick stamps and envelopes, but did not speak. Words would have added nothing to the humor of his expression.